


Five Items of Interest at a Conduit Street Residence

by JayMitchell



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:57:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayMitchell/pseuds/JayMitchell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh for years, they have worked together beautifully. </p><p>Until that meddler came.</p><p>Until the fall.</p><p>And he has five ways to remember it.</p><p>A Professor James Moriarty/ Colonel Sebastian Moran A Game of Shadows fic.</p><p>Post Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Items of Interest at a Conduit Street Residence

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at http://jassicm.tumblr.com/post/21576983149/five-items-of-interest-at-a-conduit-street-residence. Included some canon from Kim Newman's The Hound of the D'Urbervilles.

Heavy steps echoed down the main hall, where once upon a time, a mighty Firm stood. The days of its glory were still present there - plans made by the leader; cold, calculating, revered upon by many, who sat in his study for hours and executed the most brilliant of crimes. The moments where his second-in-command, some say the only one he trusts, would come in fresh from the final step, smelling of gun powder and cigarette and perhaps a token or a memento of another job well done.

The steps become faint, and then the door leading to the study opens. The clear distinction was set - on one side, books, papers, and other items of interest that tell the visitor, “This is the lair of Professor James Moriarty.” On the other, nothing much, save for a wooden chest and some drawers and a few (five at most) books. “And this Sebastian Moran’s corner. Make our time wasted on you worthwhile.”

Oh for years, they have worked together beautifully. 

Until that meddler came.

Until the fall.

And he has five ways to remember it.

**The Dynamics of an Asteroid**

It was the Professor’s proudest (and of course, legal) work.  In the course of working with him, Moran had expected to do a little paper work related to the creation of the book - go to (or scare off) the publisher, hand in the second, third, fourth draft, inform how much of a sleeping cure the entire volume is.

But no, it was all Moriarty’s work - like most of the cases the Firm took on.

So, imagine the Colonel’s surprise when Moriarty had flung the book at him.

“Watch it!” he had yelled, expecting to see one of the Firm’s under hands as the source. Instead,  he saw the Professor, standing on his side of the study, watching him with interest.

_Served me right for sleeping, I suppose. When I was expected to be on guard._

“I thank you, Sebastian, for calling the attention of Mr. Holmes.”

Moran loosens up, smiles a bit. “No problems. The man’s bonkers, by the looks of it. Came to the wedding of dear old John, in a mess.”

“Wrong, my dear colonel. Our friend Sherlock Holmes will bring in, quite a number of problems.”

Moriarty sees the colonel assume an alert position, which pleases him. 

“He may have assisted us with eliminating the thorn that is Lord Blackwood, but now he is heading straight toward us, and soon, I fear… He would ruin us and the Firm.”

At this Moran’s focus cracks - a little - and at this, the professor’s eyebrow rose. 

Moran attempts to regain some seriousness. “I thought you dismissed this detective as nothing more than an amateur?”

“That may be the case, but he has a mind which, as it stands, should not be underestimated.”

The professor turns his back on the bewildered colonel. 

“Burn that book.”

Moran almost drops the same. The professor would hiss at any instance that his life’s work would be mistreated. To burn it would be asking for death in his own hands.

“It is a reminder of our meeting. I do not wish to recall it.”

Sebastian Moran does not burn it - oh there were orders that he didn’t follow to the letter. But now he wished he had done that simple task.

**Don Giovanni**

A professor says that he cannot accompany him  to the opera. A colonel fails to hide his disappointment on having this honor taken away.

Paris is a lovely city - art, love and intellectuals come and mix their poisons on the walls and streets. To Moran, the city provides plenty of opportunities to relax and reinvigorate the man. To Moriarty, the city provides him a way of showing his power.

At first, Moran doesn’t quite get why Moriarty would need bakers and bomb makers. If he wanted some cake, then let Mrs. Hallifax bake him one. Why drag him, and his Von Herder all the way to Paris?

“Ah! James, delighted to see you here!”

 _Oh Lord, no wonder._  

At the entrance of the hotel was the waving figure of Meinhardt’s secretary, a spineless, bespectacled fool had pushed his way between Moran and Moriarty and made the mistake of taking the professor’s hand and shaking it vigorously.

“What brings you to Paris? Hope the ladies of your country didn’t quite bore you yet?”

Moran looks at the professor, who may have just finished an irritated oscillation of the head. 

“Paris is always lovely for the meeting of minds. I have come here for a lecture on my work.”

The secretary then prattles on, about how Meinhardt is here to reach out to his “fellow men in commerce”, and to perhaps, usher in a new era.

Moran, who has been quiet the whole time, already has his hand on the new hand gun Moriarty invented. 

_Just give me the look sir. Just give me THAT LOOK, and I will blow his brains off._

The secretary ends their meeting with an invitation to a dinner with Meinhardt, to catch up on things other than business.

The fool leaves, and Moriarty, rubbing his temples and letting out a sigh, looks at Moran and tells him, “Our tickets to the opera, Sebastian.”

His pace quickens as he returns to the professor’s side with the tickets in his breast pocket and a message from a Firm financier from London. He happened to see the numbers - maths was never his best subject, so he didn’t apply any effort to even understand it.

If he did, somehow, then he wouldn’t have a heavy heart as he asked one of the Paris men to follow Meinhardt. He would, however, have used his bullets to end the life of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson as they walked into the opera back door. He would have let the bomb do it’s work, and perhaps, that night, he would have seen the pleasure in Moriarty’s eyes as the final notes filled the hall.

Those were better than the unused ticket he had in his drawer.

**The First Von Herder**

He was perched on the top of the damned lighthouse, waiting for his prey. He had brought in Holmes, so now, he is bringing in the trusted Doctor Watson, to complete the whole crew.

Moriarty had once told him that loyalty was both a blessing and a curse. He thought it was a warning, but when the professor was fixated on the picture of Holmes and Watson, Moran shrugged and dismissed the professor’s latest lecture.

And there goes Watson, looking for his Holmes.

He was a brilliant shot, and he should have shot, if only that moron did not get in the way.

He pulls the trigger- killing a mouse but letting the tiger hide.

He reloads, and the strains of Die Forelle resonates through the dark. 

The professor sings along.

The meddler screams in pain.

In his mind, he needs to draw out the tiger, and the meddler will give up.

Until, the tiger drew out its claws.

“That’s not fair!”

He scrambles to get down from his tree. The tree falls, and in the mess of rubble, he realizes that he lost his tiger. And his trusted weapon.

He sees that he may have lost the source of his weapon.

He scrambles to reach the professor. Nothing else has remained in his mind. He moves the remnants of the lighthouse - his man made tree, a place where he was supposed to hunt his tiger and protect his professor. The white shirt sleeve moves, he is safe, and Moran extends a hand to help. Moriarty refuses and tells him to help in another way.

“I’ll find them. I’ll find them!”

He runs through a forest, picks up a discarded riffle - and for a brief moment, he recalls that he lost his. This thought infuriates him, and in the distance, he sees his prey. His desire to bring him down fuels him, he risks a shot.

It wounds Watson, but not enough to bring him down.

In the mess of the chase, he has lost them, but not without killing one.

He returns, and Moriarty does not look at him. He returns without the triumphant prize the professor was expecting of him. He stands at a rather safe distance.

“Sebastian,” Moriarty starts. “Are you hurt?”

Moran risks a joke. “So says the man who had a lighthouse fall on top of him.”

Moriarty does not smile. Instead, he gets up and kicks open a wooden crate.

“Another riffle from Von Herder. In case of emergencies. Or loss.”

With that, James Moriarty leaves him alone with a cruel gift.

**The Red Notebook**

For years, James Moriarty has carried around a small red notebook, filled with mostly figures. A truly complex, mathematical mind, the notebook is indecipherable to mere mortals, or even to mathematicians of some degree.

James Moriarty was of a different league.

Sebastian Moran once thought that the red notebook contained the secrets of the universe. Or at least the secrets on how to rule it. In the confines of their Conduit Street residence, he watched as men and women of  _some_ repute would approach the professor for a favor or a plea.

Before accepting, the professor would look into the notebook. He would then either shake the hand of the poor soul, or dismiss the even poorer soul with a wave of his hand.

The colonel did not need to be good in maths to figure out that the notebook was an important part of the professor’s life.

So, was his dismay - or was it buried anger? - was obvious when Inspector Lestrade was parading on the news with the retrieval of the red notebook, along with the news of the demise of “the great” Sherlock Holmes. He, who died, in the icy depths of Reichenbach Falls to stop the “Napoleon of Crime”, Professor James Moriarty.

Within weeks, the reputation of the professor was turned upside down. From reverence and awe, these turned into whispers and rumors, as the colleges he once served started to etch him off the hallowed walls. Students who remarked him with fear or respect, started gaining the courage to share their Moriarty moments.

Lies. All lies.

And when the university had decided to dispose of the professor’s belongings, the colonel gathered what resources he had, and bought off urchins and quick fingered men to bring him all of Moriarty’s possessions. Some tried to get away with valuable objects, and unlucky for them, Moran’s finger had been itching for the hunt for quite some time now. They became target practice.

He became fixated on retrieving the professor’s red notebook. He wasn’t a thief, but now was not the time for doubt.

Moran planned, and practiced on the quickness of his fingers. He did not have time, as he knows Lestrade will tire of boasting of his accomplishment of bringing down James Moriarty.

And one day, as Lestrade was walking to work, a tall man bumped into him rather hard, even knocking him over.

“Sorry sir. Need to catch up on the train.” the man said, and huffed his way to the available hansom cab.

It took Lestrade until the end of the day to realize that the red notebook was missing.

It took Moran until the end of his days to realize that the red notebook indeed was everything.

**The Tiger**

When he had worked under the Firm, the professor rewarded Moran gratuitously for a job well done. It came in different forms - a new weapon, a new lady, a new lecture (this only came when Moran was a bit careless with a mission.) Moran did not complain much, as the professor manages to provide the monetary compensation on time.

So one day, when the clients were a bit low, he took up his savings and announced that he would like to take a short vacation to go to India and stretch on his legs - basically to hunt a few tigers or so.

Moran also realized that he must be hallucinating, as Moriarty closed his the book he was reading and told him, “I would like to go with you.”

Moran also preferred that his employer be not present while he was taking down a big cat.

The professor was insistent that he would be there merely to observe, and for a change of view, as he was still on the process of finishing his book. “London has become a bit foggy for my brain. I yearn to ease my mind a bit.”

“London has always been foggy James. Move to India, fine,  but the fog goes with you.”

The colonel realizes that he had just called his employer by his first name- not even he could do so. He must really been hallucinating, as the professor merely laughed and told him that they were to leave tomorrow noon.

True to his word, Moriarty was only there to observe. He stood and looked as Moran laid down the trap, and waited as the cats of India walked into it. Behold, a majestic tiger came, and as Moran was about to take a shot, the professor asked, rather loudly, “So how shall you take it down?”

Surely, the tiger heard, and at once, it disappeared back into the plains.

Moran was looking at Moriarty furiously.

“It was close! It was so close, I could feel the fur! Why, on the name of the high heavens, did you choose to blab!”

Moriarty merely shrugged, “You were doing it wrong.”

At this point, Moran was ready to strike at Moriarty. Consequences be damned.

“I have been hunting for years now. YEARS. My bag has remained unrivaled.”

“And yet you are wrong.”

“Pray, tell me, what theorem do you invoke, as your reference for saying that I am wrong?”

Moriarty produced a small, wooden box from his bag and opened it. A soothing lullaby floated,  and within moments, a tiger approached them, cautiously at first.

Moran had once believed that Moriarty had the ability to invoke the power of other worldly natures. Perhaps Moriarty had joined this trip to reveal this truth?

Cautious turned to curious as the tiger now approached Moriarty. The professor put down the music box, and the tiger looked curiously at it. Moriarty then proceeded into petting the tiger, and in minutes, the tiger turned its attention from the box to its new master.

“Tigers are meant to be hunted,” Moran said as he and Moriarty ate their dinner. “Not to be chased down as an experiment for science or maths or whatever you wanted to prove. If you’re going to tell me some of your colleagues at the university dared you to prove that music soothes the savage beast, well. You have lost your bet  because, right now, I am a beast and I am being savage at this steak because of your actions.”

Moriarty had not eaten anything of his steak. Instead, he was looking at Moran with much intent, analyzing him.

“Tigers, perhaps, are meant to be hunted. But tell me this - why are they to be hunted?”

Moran snarled, he was not going to loose this argument. “Because they are dangerous if left alone! The destruction and loss that they could cause! I am all for that, but at least I get something out of it!”

“Dangerous if left alone, yes. And this is why the tiger needs to have a steady hand to guide him, to raise him, to love him. To make him realize that in a dangerous world, not all men are to give him danger. Men see him as dangerous, yes. But not all.”

And now, as Moran sat in Moriarty’s chair, the tiger - who for years was unnamed - slept at his feet. In all its days as a part of the home, it had always regarded Moriarty as its master, rightfully so.

_Was he referring to me, or to this big cat at my feet?_

 

 _  
_The professor had lectures, talks, words of wisdom. Had he paid more attention, then perhaps they were taking in a client right now.

Instead, on that day, when Moran’s footsteps were once again heavy, he sees the headline of the paper.

His yell startled the tiger, and his being as well.


End file.
